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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851677">for you and I are past our dancing days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot'>stcrmpilot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, vesemir's made up goatherd husband ellis who def should exist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:35:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851677</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vesemir has never bothered learning to dance. Ellis thinks this is a grave oversight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Vesemir (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Vesemir (The Witcher)/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>for you and I are past our dancing days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't actually remember doing this, but apparently it's been sitting finished in my drive for like a year. Ellis is the collective OC of the Transgendering at Kaer Morhen Discord server and he's very fun.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“The bard’s playing again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shifting lazily, Ellis lifts his head from Vesemir's chest, crosses his arms over his makeshift pillow and props his chin on top. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn witcher ears," he complains. "I can't hear a thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huffing a laugh, Vesemir unwraps one arm from around Ellis's shoulders and ruffles his hand through his hair. "You hear him play all the time. I'm sure you can imagine it." Surrendering to the comfort of Ellis's weight on his chest once more, he lets his eyes fall closed, lets Ellis study him to his heart's content, as he seems prone to do. "They're all down in the old mess hall," he murmurs. "Singing along to some ballad. Probably drunk off their asses again. Kids these days…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Careful," teases Ellis. "Gonna make me think you're older than you look."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to his consternation, Ellis pulls himself up and off the bed, dragging all the blankets off of Vesemir in the process. Vesemir opens his eyes to fix an unimpressed glare on the goatherd, but Ellis only leans over to press a kiss to his forehead before wandering across the room to the dresser. Despite his best efforts, a smile twitches at Vesemir’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A ballad,” says Ellis. “Surely you can’t be grumpy about a ballad. Everyone loves a good ballad.” He snatches one of Vesemir’s gambesons off the armchair in the corner, and spins around to show it off. He looks ridiculous in it, nearly swimming in the fabric, though he’s not a skinny man himself, and Vesemir chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning back to the dresser, Ellis picks up one of Vesemir’s swords from where it leans against the side, holds it out in front of him and gives a theatrical bow. Humming a jaunty melody to himself that Vesemir doesn’t recognize, he takes the guard in one hand and the leather sheath in the other, as if holding a partner by the shoulder and the waist, and starts to dance. In smooth, practiced movements, he leads the sword around the small room in a complicated pattern, spinning and swaying, eyes closed to complete the fantasy, singing to himself all the while. Half the words are nonsense, clearly made up on the spot, and several times he bumps into furniture. But his voice is rich and his tone perfect, and Vesemir finds himself getting lost in the rhythm of the steps. He rolls onto his side, arm under his cheek, and watches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you learn that?” he murmurs, once Ellis’s memory of the lyrics finally fails him and he resorts to humming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ellis opens one eye, sees him staring, and closes it again with a smile. “Lyria,” he says, never breaking stride. “A lovely Belleteyn evening, must’ve been… well, nearly thirty years ago, now. Taught it to a pretty blacksmith in Beauclair a while later, and never quite forgot.” He does something complicated with his feet, and it occurs to Vesemir that he might possess some talent with a sword. A sword held by the hilt, not as a makeshift dance partner. “Have you ever learned to dance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir blinks. “Me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Ellis says patiently. “Surely you must’ve. If I’d lived past three hundred, I’d know every dance out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir hesitates. “Perhaps. A long time ago. Not much time for dancing, when you’re a witcher. Hm…” His gaze slips from Ellis to the dresser as he thinks on it. “Not many people to dance with, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he glances back up, Ellis is watching him with something like deep consideration. It’s his sad look; Vesemir knows it well enough. It means he’s musing on the cruelty Vesemir has faced, as a witcher, and on how it’s all so unfair, and on how Vesemir deserves roses at his feet and free booze wherever he goes, actually. He gets an earful at least once per village. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fully expects to hear it again now—which, while both kind and endearing, stopped being necessary well over two centuries ago—but instead, a sly smile spreads across Ellis’s face. He sets the sword back in its place, walks over to the bed and holds out his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir stares at the hand, then at his face in growing alarm. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ves,” he wheedles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Witchers don’t–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eskel dances,” he points out. “He’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s Eskel!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ellis, I can’t–” Vesemir huffs, frustrated by his own embarrassment. “I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>dance</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, bullshit,” he says. “You’re damn beautiful moving with a sword. Just need someone to lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I– hm.” Vesemir feels heat rise in his cheeks. He attempts to glare at Ellis for the low blow, but Ellis’s grin only widens. Finally he sighs, accepting his defeat with grace, and allows himself to be pulled from the bed into the middle of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Ellis’s arms loop around his neck. Vesemir’s hands settle instinctively on his hips, and he happily steps into his personal space, toe to toe, face to face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t believe the things you talk me into,” Vesemir grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ellis gives a cheery nod of agreement, and kisses his cheek. “Is he still playing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Focusing on the noises from the mess hall downstairs, he nods. “Something slower, now. One of his favourites.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hum it for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir raises an eyebrow. Ellis counters with his very best doe eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, fuck,” he sighs. He takes a deep breath, suppressing his unease, and starts to hum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a melody he knows by heart—not through conscious effort, but simply because one cannot hear a song every winter for nearly a decade and not learn it. It’s a love song, tender yet energetic, and though Vesemir doesn’t dare sing the lyrics it’s impossible to mistake it for anything else. Jaskier calls it The Ballad of Kaer Morhen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he hums a few verses, familiar enough with the music to stay right in time with Jaskier's strumming, Ellis's smile grows gentle. He has this look in his eyes, so fond it makes Vesemir ache to meet his gaze. Slowly, he starts to sway from side to side, guiding Vesemir into the rhythm of the song. And perhaps it's the soothing rocking motion, or the well-loved ballad, or just the weight and warmth of Ellis's arms around him, but little by little the tension melts from Vesemir's body. Suddenly moving with the song seems like the most natural thing in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just follow my footsteps," murmurs Ellis, once he's got a sense of the ballad's patterns. He moves his right foot backwards, graceful as ever, and Vesemir promptly steps on his toes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit," he mutters, as Ellis laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try again,” he encourages. Slowly, he steps forward, and Vesemir moves back to make room. Another step, then two, and Vesemir realizes he’s forgotten to hum, caught up in trying to anticipate Ellis’s movements. He starts again and Ellis smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Ellis’s assertion, Vesemir quickly finds that his confidence when sword fighting, his ability to anticipate another person’s moves before they’re made, isn’t quite translating into the dance. He has to watch Ellis’s feet to know where to move, though he’s vaguely aware that it’s considered bad form. It’s a bit shocking, after so many years of life, to discover a physical discipline in which his enhanced reflexes and training aren’t cutting it—but to be entirely fair he’s never had to fight with Ellis in his arms, looking at him like… like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After a couple minutes, Ellis seems to decide that Vesemir has mastered the art of stepping backwards and forwards without tripping himself too badly, and begins to guide him in slow, smooth circles around the room. Somehow, it’s relaxing. Vesemir lets himself ease into the repetitive motions, slackens his tense muscles, stops trying so hard to watch Ellis’s movements. Admittedly, he stops because he’s grown rather entranced by the fondness in his expression, the light crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the soft upturn of his lips, and has not been able to drag his attention away yet; but regardless of the reason, it allows him to focus on the way Ellis is directing him, gently pushing him in the correct direction before he even starts to move, turning his body to indicate which foot should move where. Then it’s terribly easy to let his eyes close and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, trust that Ellis will show him where to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the pleasant fog of warmth and swaying and happiness, it occurs to him that this is the same trust he shares with his sparring partners, with any witcher he’s ever fought beside; that absolute assurance that he is safe in their company. Once upon a time it would’ve alarmed him. Trust is not something he’s ever given lightly. But now he only smiles, tugs Ellis closer, buries his face in the crook of his neck and savours his huff of laughter, because he’s long since learned that Ellis won’t let him fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier has stopped playing. Vesemir has stopped humming, and for all intents and purposes Ellis has stopped leading their little dance. Without truly realizing it, they’ve eased to a stop in the middle of the room and are now doing little but standing, rocking slightly in each other’s arms. Vesemir’s head rests on Ellis’s shoulder, his eyes still closed, and he can feel Ellis’s soft breaths on his neck, where he’s turned his face into Vesemir’s hair. His fingers trail over Vesemir’s back, beneath his shirt. They’re pressed together as close as possible, because Vesemir is holding him tight. It’s frivolous; dangerous; time better spent cleaning or training or sleeping. Vesemir would stay like this forever if he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought makes him chuckle. Ellis hums in question, drawing him impossibly closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Barmin would have my hide if he caught me wasting time dancing,” Vesemir murmurs. “I would’ve too, before…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Before the pogrom. Before I realized there’s more to life than duty. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He doesn’t complete the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ellis understands anyway, because of course he does. “Yeah, well, you’ve always had a bit of a stick up your ass, eh?” he teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir huffs. “Mm. Thank you,” he murmurs. “For the dancing. Not for calling me uptight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone has to,” says Ellis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The boys already do. Every damn day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then many people have to,” he laughs. He presses a kiss to Vesemir’s temple. “See, dear? Knew you’d like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was tolerable,” Vesemir lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve a lovely voice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, resigned to the blush heating his cheeks and to the flattery. He’s too busy savouring the calm and quiet, the drowsiness threatening to drag him off into sleep, right here in Ellis’s arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ellis knows, because of course he does. “Bed?” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir nods, accepting one brief kiss before Ellis pulls himself away. He settles back down amongst the pillows, just like before, and watches Ellis slip out of the gambeson and replace it on the chair. Just like before, he drapes himself half over Vesemir and lays his head on his chest. Vesemir’s arms wind around his shoulders, and he makes a little noise of contentment. Downstairs, Jaskier has started on a jaunty sea shanty. The boys are singing along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should take you to a banquet,” murmurs Ellis. “Lots’a dancing there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El,” Vesemir warns, though there’s only amusement behind it. “Don’t push your luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yawns, unbothered. “We’ll go with Jaskier. Show the Continent how well the old Wolf dances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir smacks the back of his head lightly. “No banquets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dancing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ellis’s lips curl in a wicked smile, which Vesemir feels against his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll teach you to dance, you teach me to wield a sword.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir pictures it. It’s a very nice picture. “Damn it,” he mutters. “Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets Ellis’s laughing fit run its course, and falls asleep to the sound of merrymaking and a quiet human heartbeat. </span>
</p>
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